


how about you walk your girlfriend home, son.

by zolotolev



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7428517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zolotolev/pseuds/zolotolev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was walking down a street she had haunted as a child, watching a troubled young man in a trench coat and boots made for war become discomfited at her attempt at comfort, and she wanted to hold his hand. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how about you walk your girlfriend home, son.

They walked down the center of the road, zigzagging when the occasional car would roll down the suburban side street. She mainly watched her own white sneakers make tracks on the pavement but she did, once or twice, glance over to his own large clunky black boots as they strolled along. It was balmy and a peaceful unassuming sunset was gracing Sherwood. The only sounds, aside from the crack of loose pavement under their feet, were the last songbirds of the day calling out to the approaching twilight. They walked. 

Eventually, she felt his eyes come to rest on her. A blanket of hair curtained either side of her face and saved her from his piercing gaze. She arranged her features and glanced up. It was a gamble looking into his eyes. Sometimes she forgot where they were or what they had done, so inviting was that abyss of sea green. She stumbled in her forward path slightly and let out a nervous laugh. A small trademark smirk flashed across his face before it turned contemplative and he looked forward, squinting slightly against the sun’s rays. 

“You’re not running,” he mumbled. JD often had a way of speaking that left the listener unsure if he had meant to say anything out loud at all. 

Veronica blurted out the first response that came to her because she had no impulse control. “I don’t need the exercise,” and she nudged him slightly, entering his circle of forward momentum before stepping away again. She snorted and didn’t see him smile adoringly as she immediately became abashed. “That was so bad. I’m sorry.” 

They shuffled along and she cringed inwardly. All of her friends had grown up in relatively loving homes. On more than one occasion, Veronica had rolled her eyes at or verbally repelled the impromptu slow dances her parents would break into in the middle of their kitchen or the lingering kisses before leaving the house. But inside, she loved the idea of her parents being happy, and she loved that they loved each other and loved her. She had never seen a dysfunctional home. What had JD seen? What did he love about his father? 

She cleared her throat slightly and haltingly offered, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

JD rubbed the mild scruff that was appearing along his jaw and that crooked grin appeared again, “Talk about how bad that pun was?” The hand closest to her was buried solidly in the pocket of his trench coat. 

She was walking down a street she had haunted as a child, watching a troubled young man in a trench coat and boots made for war become discomfited at her attempt at comfort, and she wanted to hold his hand. What would Heather Chandler say? _She would probably let out a death rattle muffled by pipe cleaner because I killed her._

_Oh God._

Veronica realized she had been staring at him too long again. She swung her head forward again. She bit her lip. “It wasn’t a pun. Puns need a double entendre or some sort of uh, um. You know, like a…” 

“Right,” he responded, now also grinning down at their shuffling feet. “A certain _je ne said quoi_ , if you will.” 

The French rolling from his tongue made her stomach clench. “Uh-huh,” she responded dumbly, sneaking sideways glances at how his mouth moved when he smiled and how sharp his profile features were, how straight his shoulders were even as he ambled leisurely beside her. She thought everything he did exuded something entrancing. His disheveled hair falling over one brow was enough to distract her. She looked forward again. This was bad. This was so bad. 

Her sneakers moved more slowly. She very softly allowed herself to ask, “JD, how did your mom die?” His feet stopped moving. She stopped, too, and turned to see both his hands stuffed into coat pockets and his face impassive. “I’m sorry, that was – we don’t have to – “ 

“She was in an abandoned building that was set for demolition that day.” Monotone. 

Quietly, apologetically, “On purpose?”

A fleeting smirk, “I can’t really ask her.” 

Now with more trepidation, with the air of someone following a trail into badlands, “JD, did – did your dad know?” 

The smirk became more forceful as it became more pronounced, walls upon walls of unbreakable stone, “I can’t really ask him, either. It’s getting dark.” 

She wanted to hold his hand. What was it about the solid Teflon of his exterior that made her want to hack at it until there was nothing left? His shoulders straight, his features pointed, his jaw set – a young man walking into battle every single day. She wanted to dissuade him from these consuming strategic plans and this steel armor for a minute. She wore every emotion openly, every expression and movement of hers was bare for the world to see. She wanted to hold his hand and run a thumb along bruised knuckles and see if there was anything underneath the perfectly melded snark. This was bad. This was so bad. 

They reached the entrance to her neighborhood. The sky was a light inky blue and the sun, though gone, still cast pinks and purples onto the clouds on the horizon. He stepped back and said words. She stepped forward and kissed him, white sneakers vertical as she balanced on her tiptoes and hands splayed across his chest. It didn’t take much. He hunched into her embrace and curled both hands into the hair on either side of her face, bringing her forward as purposefully as he knew how. With every clash of lips, she felt his desperation and greeted it. The coils inside her wound impossibly tighter as she pressed herself flush against him, feeling him want her, need her. 

A car passed by and honked. There was whooping from inside. Then it disappeared over a hill. 

It was enough. She had sprung back in surprise but he caught her, pulling her close so that their foreheads touched (he had to bend slightly – she loved it). “I need you to,” he breathed out a self-deprecating laugh, “to not run.” And she felt a thrill run through her. 

“Okay,” she whispered back. He closed his eyes, brows furrowed, and took a moment to catch his breath before gently releasing her and stepping back. She tucked her hair behind her ears, warm and flushed, before giving him a little wave and turning to her street. 

“Veronica.” She turned. He made finger guns at her, mirroring her goofy gestures, and grinned. “You were my first, too.” He walked backwards for a moment, bouncy and triumphant at the windblown look on her face, before pivoting and sauntering into the dusk.


End file.
